My husband hit the Black Crowes at 9:30 on Sunday (one of us had to stay home on babysitting detail). However, his ensuing guilt did buy me some leverage. So when I received an invite from my friend Christie who is just very, very cool, I took it, and headed off to the Diddy party last night.
I had an event that morning, followed by work all afternoon, pitch meeting straight thereafter, then home to play with/bathe/feed/brush teeth of my child who just gets more animated and hilarious with each passing day. Then a few hours labeling DSS photos for the press (sounds so easy, in reality is quite complicated), another hour answering emails, then off to get ready. Skinny Superfines and my new fantastic Black Halo cowl neck (but in a good way) top from Alex, fast becoming my favorite boutique in DC (especially since my Intermix discount card expires at the end of this month! Even still, Alex's clothes prevail.).
Time check: 11pm. Have been on the go since 6:45am. So there's that.
Drive down, walk up, finagle through the lines, past every NBA player I've ever seen but cannot identify, past Rock Newman (who, though he has no idea, I used to wait on all the time in college when he represented the WORST tipper of all time, Riddick Bowe), past hordes from a B+T crowd I didn't know existed outside of Weehawken. But they do. And they smoke. All of them. And wear cologne. And like to stare directly at your breasts as you approach. Yeah, that couldn't be any more uncomfortable.
Hung with friends, met KAC **finally**, after emailing for forever (for her fabulous and continual support of my charity events, I am forever in her debt), headed up to the VIP area, and right to the free drinks table. Only they weren't free. They were $10 for a crappy V+T in a plastic cup. Crowds upstairs: as thick as the B+T smoke two floors below. Had to get. out. now.
Back down the stairs, guzzle the last of the champagne, say my goodbyes, and head out the door. To air. Ah, sweet, sweet air.
Down I Street to my car, past the homeless men wrapped in their grey issued blankets, one by one down the row of park benches.
Start the car, then left on what is now a quiet K, the opposite of my commute home down the same path every day. Up the Canal, trees whisking by, keeping an eye out for deer, potholes or the random axe murderer (it is quite creepy at night, I'm just saying). Through the stop sign, up my street, into my door, and out to my porch to leave my stinky, stinky smoke clothes.
Tiptoe into my son's room, where he's snuggled like a buggle in his green giraffe blanky. "I love you Jack" is met with the sigh of a contented boy who has just recently started to dream (and in turn, talk in his sleep).
Up the stairs, splash on the face, crawl into bed, and a groggy greeting from my husband:
"Bet the Black Crowes were a million times better."
So uncool to say. But true.
But even a million times better than that: my bed, my pillow, my husband, and my son (dreaming about ducks by this time, apparently).